Anomaly
by ohcEEcho
Summary: Edmund never expected life as a Monarch to be easy...but nor did he think it would be quite so hard. Love has a way of complicating the simplest of things. [Light Slash.]
1. Mint

**Okay. This was not my fault. This just crept up on me and smacked me full in the face. (Sighs) Down with plot bunnies…I'm blaming Shauna for this! I never meant for this to happen!**

**This has absolutely nothing to do with the storyline of Ironic synchronicity or the alternate universe in which that plot resides…MISTAKEN PERCEPTION WILL NOT BECOME SLASH!**

**Disclaimer: If the ghost of CS Lewis would be so kind as to NOT strike me down, I don't own it. Do I look rich?**

**Warnings: Light incestuous slash (Peter/Edmund). Nothing beyond kissing, really. And slow development. Extremely.**

**Pairings: Peter/Edmund (eventually), Tumnus/Lucy.**

**Rating: PG13 American, 12 English.**

**This fic is really exploring the nature and diversity of love. What defines simple 'innocent' love from a deeper, more emotional love, and why is it sometimes viewed as wrong? In fact, what _is_ love?**

Anomaly

_Vanilla and Mint_

_I don't understand._

_It was a single mistake._

_A fluke._

_It won't happen again; nobody need remember it. Even I needn't. I could just write it off as a dream, a memory, a figment of my imagination. In the past. Insignificant._

_But I can't._

_It lingers, still. Plagues me in every waking moment, and curses me every night. It was a blessing, a grace, and yet so terrible, so profoundly…wrong, I can hardly bear to think of it._

_So why did it feel so right?_

_Somehow, some way, I treasure it. Hold it in a dear place, in my heart, a place nobody but he has ever been held. And there it will stay, quietly hidden, a frail thought in a dream of a dream._

_I'm falling; falling down, drowning in a sea of colours. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. I do nothing._

_Cruelly, I don't want this dream to end._

_He'll always be the dream that fills my head._

_-----------------------------------------------------------------_

_**Midsummer's Eve, Fifth year of the Golden age.**_

"Aslan be praised! The High King! King Peter returns!"

Edmund's heart immediately flipped in a violent somersault, his stomach churning. He was almost afraid to look up, in case…just in case the sentry was wrong. It had happened before.

He stood perfectly still, hidden in the lengthening shadows of an archway in the main courtyard. The sun was setting over the eastern sea, and the sky was awash with painted blends of gold and soft pink. Shafts of sunlight spilled across the flagstones, patterned shadows of vines on the battlement making it appear as a canvas, and nature the artist.

He could truly say he loved his country with devotion. But even Cair Paravel, with its beauteous splendour…seemed as cold and empty as Edmund's own heart, without Peter there.

Edmund slowly raised his head as the stones shook lightly beneath him, echoing the pounding of a thousand thundering footsteps. He frowned, as he recalled the rebounding hordes of creatures which had devotedly accompanied Peter when he left.

Almost two years ago, now. It had seemed a thousand ages to Edmund. When the Northern Giants upon the border had grown bolder, Narnia had finally yielded, and sent all the troops they could gather together to face the threat.

Last they had heard, almost two thirds of the army would not be returning.

Edmund leant his aching head against the smooth stone of the archway, drawing comfort from the trapped warmth of the dying sun in its old bones. Susan and Lucy had smiled, and shed a few tears, and shared his burden as they waited endless nights for news.

Seven months ago, the last griffin messenger had died of his wounds before he could deliver his message. And after that, nothing. No more news came.

Edmund had died a little each passing day since then. He was surprised he had any strength left to stand at all. Visions of his brother, the High King, falling in battle, stabbed from behind, shot, crushed in an oversized fist which made Peter look so delicate. Weak.

He shivered.

"Sire?"

A young faun guard had halted in his galloping step towards the gates, and dropped a hasty bow. Edmund inclined his head, and turned his gaze once more upon the high parapet above which bore a rippling flag. Depicting a roaring lion, caught mid-rear.

He had prayed for deliverance; even at the cost of a thousand Narnian countrymen…he would have his brother safe. And, terribly, he felt no guilt. Although he knew he should.

"Will you not come to the gates?"

Edmund nodded and dismissed the faun with a single gesture of his hand, feeling suddenly exhausted. His every limb ached with fatigue, a relief which ran deeper than the very marrow in his bones. As the faun clacked hurriedly across the courtyard, Edmund let out a slow breath.

A fell breeze swirled about him, lifting his dark hair and cooling his burning head. He inhaled deeply, and blinked as a familiar scent was brought to him upon nature's breath. He smiled, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

Mint and vanilla.

Peter.

And he was running. Flying to the gates, his own pounding footsteps lost amid the approaching thundering torrent of noise. The gates were inching slowly open with a screech of rusty hinges, and a sentry sounded a joyous fanfare above.

The creatures of Narnia flocked to the gates to witness the long awaited return of their army, and their King. Edmund kept to the shadows, standing upon a shadowed stairway, easily able to see over the sea of bobbing heads and brightly coloured assorted creatures which filled the courtyard.

He could not help a small smile as the crowds abruptly fell silent, save for the whisperings of a few youngsters. The gates had been thrown wide, and an eerie quiet settled. The hoofed and cloved approaching feet had slowed to a gentle gallop, almost teasing.

Edmund swallowed thickly.

And then, a mighty cheer arose, as a blurred figure upon a pearly white horse led the returning forces through the gates, and came to a rearing halt in the centre of the parted crowds.

Edmund nearly wept with relief.

He barely heard the ruckus around him, the brightly swirling colours and the pleasant chaos of excited voices. His burning eyes were affixed upon the single figure, leaning down to clasp hands with his people.

He only realised he was biting his lip when he tasted coppery blood upon his stinging face.

Peter was distracted; his sky blue eyes scanning the crowds, his half smile only for show. Edmund felt his heart leap, and moved slowly forwards into the light, waiting impatiently, and yet dreading the moment.

He felt a smile creep across his face.

Peter's hair had grown to his chin, golden strands falling freely into his face and brushing his pale cheeks. Too pale. He looked worn, and somehow far older than his nineteen years allowed. His blue eyes looked haunted, and-

Edmund clapped a hand to his mouth as Peter turned his head.

A deep, half healed gash across his brother's temple still spilled phantom, dried blood down his face, and dark blemished bruising marred the entirety of the left his neck.

And then the moment was broken, as their eyes met.

Peter blinked, and his eyes spilled over with a magnificent joy which brought the warmth back to his face. He smiled a true smile, and leapt lightly from his saddle, the crowd surging quickly away to form a path to the shadowed stairway.

Edmund stumbled down the last few steps, all the world besides his brother suddenly fading into a blur of meaningless colour and noise. Neither blinked nor looked away, and Edmund felt as though he was drowning in his brother's eyes.

And then they met. Edmund, a single step above his brother, felt strange. Peter stopped, craning his neck to look up at him. He must have grown. Two years ago, step or no step, Peter would have towered over him.

Silence had fallen over the courtyard; a respectful lull for the reunion of brothers. For a moment they stood awkwardly, Peter flushed and slightly out of breath, Edmund hesitant.

Then Peter smiled, and reached for him, and Edmund let out a choked laugh as he embraced his brother tightly.

And it seemed as though the sun truly shone for the first time in years.

_-----------------------------------------------------------------_

_**Autumn, Fifth year of the Golden Age.**_

Nobody said anything, of course. Not Susan, not Lucy, none of the courtiers. But they saw; they knew. Those who had returned from the war had…changed. They bore haunted expressions, and long after they had all been bathed and clothed like returning heroes, they still slumped, and smelt distinctly of blood.

It did not go unnoticed that a large percentage of the army had not returned at all. Those who had didn't seem grateful for their salvation; moreover, they seemed bitter. Not towards each other, and not towards Peter. But towards themselves.

Peter was deeply entrenched in grievance.

Following all the formalities, the greeting of the higher members of society, the triumphant march through the inner gates, Edmund lost track of time. Days passed. And Edmund began to grow more and more desperate. He gave thanks every morning, as the sun rose, to whatever higher power had delivered his brother.

And yet cursed it, for causing Peter such pain.

Peter cut his hair short again, and the colour seemed to creep slowly back to his pale face; but there was no ignoring the smudged shadows beneath his eyes spawned from countless nights of torment. The scars which marred the High King's face faded, the blood washed away. But it seemed as though Peter's hurt ran deeper than shallow surface wounds.

Edmund would have born it all in a heartbeat, to relieve Peter…but the fact was that he could not understand. And therefore could not help.

All he could do was sit in beside the door to Peter's room every night, and wait in agonising silence for the muffled sobs to fade into quiet. Then he would creep, like a shadow, and carry his brother from the cold windowsill to his bed. Sometimes he stayed, sometimes he had to tear from the room, before his own sobs woke Peter.

If Peter ever wondered how he moved from the window to his bed every morning, he never mentioned it.

After a fortnight of this vicious cycle, when one morning over breakfast, Susan announced the approaching arrival of ambassador consorts from the Kingdom of Archenland. Peter had merely grunted and nodded, lowering his gaze once more to pick at his food morosely.

Lucy bit her lip, took a deep breath, and plastered a smile across her face. She pushed her plate away and fixed her elder sister with an encouraging look.

"That's wonderful, Susan! When are they coming?"

Susan blinked, looking away from giving Peter a concerned look, and managed a weak smile for Lucy. Edmund felt his stomach squirm, his recently ingested breakfast feeling suddenly unpleasant. He swallowed thickly, and looked around the table.

"Tomorrow, mid-afternoon. I was thinking we might hold a banquet dance in their honour, with the usual pleasantries."

"Oh, that would be lovely! I'll ask Mr Tumnus to spread the word!"

Lucy exclaimed, but even Edmund knew it was not genuine. She gazed almost imploringly at her eldest brother, willing him to react, to say something, and then she looked pleadingly to Edmund.

Peter still refused to look up. Edmund felt a powerful surge of anger, grief and something quite different fill the pit of his stomach with lead. It writhed and burned, and he swallowed, determinedly pushing it to the back of his mind.

Susan had looked away from Lucy, her fake temporary smile fallen. Lucy was looking from Peter to Susan, a look of desolate despair filling her kindly face.

"Oh, for the love of-"

Edmund slammed his goblet down on the table, and all three of his siblings jumped, startled. Edmund rose from his seat, fists clenched, shaking. With anger, or fear, or pure misery, he didn't know.

"This is…just…I…I **_hate _**this! You-"

His voice grew louder and louder until he was shouting, and there was a shocked silence as his words rebounded around the great dining hall. Edmund felt a savage triumph as Peter finally raised dull blue eyes to look at him in surprise.

He had become sick of it. Of it all.

Gazing into his brother's eyes, he tried, and miserably failed, to form the words. The stark weakness he saw in his brother's broken face was enough to render him mutely speechless. Frustrated, he tore his gaze away.

"Oh, **forget** it! I'm leaving."

Edmund stormed from the room in a whirl of stormy grey, as all three of his sibling's eyes followed him, transfixed. After a short moment, Peter neatly pushed his still full plate aside with a clatter, and absently tucked a stray strand of golden hair behind his ear. His brow furrowed slightly, a deeply exhausted, but troubled expression filling his gaze.

His sister's watched him quietly, waiting.

"Would you…arrange the banquet, please Susan? I'll…I'll be down to help you, in a little while."

He said clearly, although his voice seemed somehow thin and weak. The tone was forcibly impassive, and Susan nodded, giving him a small smile, understanding. He gave her hand, which he had taken across the table as he spoke, a grateful squeeze, and slid off his chair, standing slowly.

Lucy did not miss the way he clutched at the back of the chair for support before straightening, wincing slightly at the complaint of still healing hurts. He caught her concerned look, and his pale face grew sad. He moved around the table, pausing beside her, and touched a hand briefly to her cheek.

"I'm sorry, Lu. Truly. I'll…try harder."

She beamed, and nodded enthusiastically, her entire face lighting up. She faltered when she saw the deepening sorrow and terrible guilt which plagued her brother's eyes, and reached up to wrap her arms briefly around him.

"You don't need to try, Peter. Just remember how."

He gave her a confused look, but she shook her head, and gave him a gentle push in the direction of the door. He managed a small smile, and turned, heading after his brother.

_-----------------------------------------------------------------_

_Fate has a strange sense of humour, it seems. It is playful; likes to twist the world to its ways. And those who don't abide with fate, have only themselves to blame when they fail to defy it._

_And, in the end, they all fail. And some lose more than they gain in the fight._

_-----------------------------------------------------------------_

**A/N: Well, it took countless hours of non-stop cajoling but I finally gave in. I will state again, that this has absolutely nothing to do with my other Narnia fics.**

**IMPORTANT: This fic is the first slash I have written properly…and it will probably be the lightest you've ever read. So light it could almost be mistaken for brotherly love. Almost. But not really.**

**It's a bit darker, more serious, than my other fics too. I think I'll save it for rainy days.**

**Comments would be deeply appreciated! Should I just delete this thing and save myself some pain?**

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Vanilla

**Well, I suppose it is drizzling a little outside…so ok. Here goes. A big thanks to all reviewers! I wasn't at all sure whether to continue or not, but…very well, I suppose…**

**Disclaimer: If the ghost of CS Lewis would be so kind as to NOT strike me down, I don't own it. Do I look rich?**

**Warnings: Light incestuous slash (Peter/Edmund). Nothing beyond kissing, really. And slow development. Extremely.**

**Pairings: Peter/Edmund (eventually), Tumnus/Lucy.**

**Rating: PG13 American, 12 English.**

Anomaly

_Darkly beautiful, sweetly Fair_

_What is beauty? What higher power deems a person beautiful?_

_There are a great many types of beauty; the fickle mirage of a stately lady, whose beauty is only skin deep, as they say. _

_The beauty of an untouched, innocent child, whose beauty stems of a purity no sinner can bear to behold._

_But most puzzling of all, is a beauty which shines from within. A beauty so pure, so fair, so unbearably bittersweet and yet so alluringly wonderful. So much so it is simple, cruel agony to merely stand in its presence._

_My High King shone with a beauty so blinding, even as you writhe in agony, you feel an intoxication so deep you cannot tear your eyes away._

_The King of my Heart was not faultless; nor was he pure. No. He was tainted, marred with the accusing blood of foolish innocents. Innocents which loved him; such as I love him. They died for him; and now, slowly, so cruelly slowly, he is dying for them._

_And I am dying with him._

_-----------------------------------------------------------------_

**_Midsummer's Day, Fifth year of the Golden age._**

The quiet of the dying night was almost unbearable; and although the creeping warmth of the rising sun was spilling into the world around him, Peter only felt cold. A deep, unsettling cold which ached deep within his chest. It penetrated every fibre of his being, engulfing his very form with an empty feeling.

His feet were bare; somehow, the feel of sun-soaked leather wrapped about his feet was oppressive. And the cool sensation of dewy grass beneath his feet was somehow refreshing. He walked slowly, entranced by the eerie stillness of the world turning from night to early morning.

It felt almost like a dream; wandering the length of the castle, along the edges of the cliffs, around the moat, and back again. Time and again, over and over, for what seemed like an endless stretch of repetition. Wood, cold stone, wet grass beneath his feet.

Edmund was nowhere to be found.

He had been searching all day, since breakfast that morning. Not frantically, but with a strange sense of calm. Somehow, he felt that Edmund needed to be alone, at least for a while. And when he was ready to be found, Peter would be able to find him. It was just a feeling, but Peter knew.

He stopped quite suddenly, and glanced up, as a languid breeze spun about him in a complex dance. He had long since shed his cloak, and he suddenly felt terribly exposed, brittle in the sway of the wind. Goosebumps rose up his arms, but he stood quite still.

The wind was spiralling East; bringing with it the faint scent of something brutally distinctive.

He inhaled deeply, noting the sweet musk of pollen dust which was interwoven with the scent which was distinctly Edmund. It was a very strange smell, he supposed, in some ways. Exotic.

Since his encounter with the white witch, Edmund had lost his love for Turkish delight. The two flavourings, however, rosewater and lemon essence, still had some appeal to him. He had also discovered a passion for dark, bitter chocolate, and so combined these three sensations into his daily life.

Peter began to walk automatically towards the natural cliffside stairway leading down to the beach, as in his mind's eye he pictured his brother sneaking a rosewater truffle from the gilded box which stood in his study. Edmund's study was his realm, a private sanctuary all to himself, and he spent most of his time there. Anyone caught intruding usually left promptly, in order to avoid the various flying projectiles headed their way (usually a large, heavy book).

Peter wasn't entirely sure why Edmund smelt of lemons. Maybe it was because of the lemon juice which he used to neutralise the alkaline nib of his quill pens; or perhaps it was just the way he was. Either way, it was an unusual combination, for a boy; roses, dark chocolate and lemon rind. It sounded like some sort of dessert.

He sighed almost contentedly as he slid off the last ridge in the stairway and his feet met smooth yet coarse sand. He had always loved the seaside, since he was a very young boy. It had felt like the end of the world to him then, with the ocean stretching seamlessly at liberty far beyond his eyesight. It was peaceful.

He stood tall, staring out at the silhouetted darkness of the eastern sea. It was dangerous, but somehow, that made it terribly alluring. The unknown, no matter how frightening a concept, held a liberating quality.

He scanned the beach, beginning to meander aimlessly across the sand. The sand by Cair Paravel was not like the sand back home; like everything in Narnia, it was somehow softer, more real. Almost like the entirety of the world of mankind was a mere shadow of this place.

He smiled, as he finally caught sight of a dark, huddled figure far across, down by the water. The tide seemed to be lapping at its feet, but it lay quite still, like a statue.

Peter wasn't concerned, however. If Edmund was in immediate danger, he would have felt it; known, somehow. His arms swung limply at his sides, the loose sleeves of his tunic rippling in the slight breeze as he approached the hunched figure of his brother. His sense of fleeting calm was rapidly lost in an unstemmed flow of gripping guilt.

He had failed so many people lately.

But he had no time to think of himself, nor the sorrows of those who fell by his hand; not literally, of course. But he had caused their deaths. His allegiance now, however, was to his family. He had neglected them in favour of his own grief, and he had to put aside his turmoil in favour of aiding them.

He halted, mere inches from his brother's form; Edmund lay curled on his side, head tucked down, hiding his features. He was breathing steadily, but he seemed uneasy in his sleep. If he was, indeed, asleep.

Peter felt a foreign smile curl his lips, and he knelt carefully down, content to sit for a while and watch Edmund sleep. He had always done so, since Edmund had first been born. His little brother was the first sibling who truly seemed to need him; Susan had always been more of a companion than a protégé. The very first night, at the hospital, Peter had spent hours simply standing on aching feet, hands clutching the bars of the cot, staring in awe at this strange, helpless creature which had suddenly become his responsibility.

He had always felt, and still felt, a deep affection for his brother. A connection. He could not explain it; with Susan, he found a safe haven, a shelter from the storm. She was his best friend, his partner in crime, and sometimes, even his protector. With Lucy, he felt a happiness which needed no words to describe; she could bring him light in the darkest of times.

But Edmund…

Edmund was his rock, his salvation, his…everything. When he was with him, he could never feel cold, not in the harshest of winters. And when he was not, he was lost.

"Found you."

Peter muttered, as though they were still young and bright eyed, and he had simply won yet another round of hide and seek. He had never been beaten by Edmund, ever. He always knew where to find him. He understood how Edmund's mind worked. But more than that, he simply knew. Always.

"I'm sorry."

It sounded pathetic.

Peter automatically reached out to smooth Edmund's dark hair, frowning absently as he thought. He knew Edmund's outburst this morning had been through frustration, and anger; anger towards himself, Peter.

It was no use apologising. No matter how many times he did so, it made no difference. He would hurt them again. Over and over and over, until at last neither they nor he could take any more. He felt worn, and empty. Incomplete. He had never felt so miserable in Edmund's company before.

Not that this was really classified as 'company'.

Peter let his hand fall away, folding it neatly against his burning chest. He winced, and gritted his teeth, stretching his back upwards with several painful snaps of his spine. They were old injuries now; the bruises faded, but the pain remained. He wasn't even sure if it was physical anymore.

His ribcage had been crushed inwards by the fist of a giant, during one of the later skirmishes. The intensity of the pressure had been so great, that dancing crimson and sooty black spots had formed before his very eyes. It may have been this lack of sense at the time, which led him to hear his brother's voice calling out in terror for him.

Whether it had been real or not, it saved his life. Given him the prompt he needed to stab the brute in the neck with his free arm. His broken free arm, incidentally. Well, fractured. But it could have been broken. Peter wasn't sure. He had lost sight of, well…everything, during that war.

He sometimes felt like he left himself behind, and he now lay dead among his countrymen, his children. The Narnian people he loved, who died for him.

He felt a wetness flood his palm, and quickly released his fist from its curled position. His brow furrowed as he inspected the damage. The skin had broken, but luckily not so much as to create a steady flow; just a well. He let out a long breath, and fished a handkerchief from his pocket.

"…n…o…"

Peter's fingers fumbled on the knot as Edmund hissed a quiet whimper in his sleep, and tossed over, seeming to subconsciously move towards Peter. Edmund's face was contorted in what appeared to be fear, his freckled nose scrunched up and his brow furrowed in a grimace.

"…don't…"

Peter secured the makeshift bandage, before placing his free hand on his brother's forehead. He frowned when he found it was sticky with sweat. He brushed the gathered strands back from Edmund's face and leaned over, trying to make sense of his brother's fragmented murmurs.

"…ter…Pe…ter…"

Peter swallowed as his heart began to beat painfully fast. This had once been natural to him. A simple matter of gathering Edmund into his arms and telling him it would be alright. But, in a twisted, twisted way…Peter did not want to touch Edmund. Edmund was so…well…innocent was not the right word. Edmund was the sole remaining part of him which was still untouched by sorrow.

Well, not completely untouched. But for weeks now, Peter had felt ugly, and dirty. Unworthy of the love of a brother so deserving of more. He was a failure; pure and simple. He swallowed, the dreadful aching beginning to press in against his ribs once more.

The tide lapped at his feet, and he shrugged them away, hastily turning to shift his brother back away from the rising water line. The moment was broken, and he felt the familiar numb cold fill his mind in entirety. He welcomed it. It was a sanctuary in itself, in a strange sort of way.

"Come on, Eddy. Time for bed."

He said, mimicking the words of a golden haired boy with a feather-light heart. A boy who had died mere weeks ago.

He levered his brother carefully up onto his back. Edmund grew quiet, and made an inquisitive sound, before slumping limply over Peter's shoulders. Peter smiled weakly, and hoisted himself up until he was standing.

He was halfway up the beach, lost in sluggish, aimless thought, when Edmund shifted, his hands twisting the material of Peter's tunic. Peter halted, head bowed, his fair hair falling into his eyes. Quite suddenly, Edmund turned his head and nuzzled the back of Peter's neck, almost like a kitten stating affection.

Edmund inhaled deeply, his nose now buried in Peter's freshly washed hair, before muttering something contentedly and allowing his head to slip down to rest between his brother's shoulder blades.

All was still.

A slight breeze blew up, and the moment was broken. Peter shivered, and although Edmund's warmth was seeping into his back, he still felt so bitterly cold. Edmund felt so heavy, heavier than he had ever felt before. The physical metaphor of a burden, Peter supposed.

He bowed his head once more and marched stiffly onwards, refusing to glance up at the surely breathtaking view of the rising sun over the eastern sea. He had begun to shiver uncontrollably, slight tremors, but they did not stop. Edmund shifted uncomfortably and whimpered.

"Sorry, Ed. I'm…sorry."

He fumbled over the words of comfort. He felt unworthy to tell his brother anything but this; a feeble apology. For it was all he could do now. He could try, oh, he could try desperately hard. But they held him back. The fallen, whom he abandoned to their endless cold.

Peter quickened his pace, determined to get away; far away, as soon as possible. With each passing moment, he felt increasingly guilty for simply touching Edmund. Like some sort of dirty creature marring an innocent child.

'But Edmund is…my brother…and he would love me no matter what…'

The little boy protested, rising up in sudden defiance, before faltering and shying away from the monster he had grown to become. His suppressor felt anger, but it was soon quenched as a wave of sorrowful longing enveloped them both.

'What right do I have…to bear such a title?'

He was no better than the beasts who slew his people. They may as well have died by his own hand. Why, why had they grown so foolish? Had he truly deceived them so completely that they would sacrifice their life for his own? He was not worthy of such devotion. And now…

'Who could ever love a monster, a murderer, such as I?'

Edmund was heavy and hot on his back, almost burning him. He winced, flinching, and broke into a lumbering run. As he drew closer to the drawbridge of the palace, a breeze blew up, and the glorious dawn broke at last to a colder world.

'If he only knew…he would turn from me in disgust, like they all have. If he only knew…'

_-----------------------------------------------------------------_

_I once heard, in a world in a faraway dream, that when it rains it mean the angels are crying. I often asked myself; why? Why were the angels crying? What could be done to ease their sorrows?_

_Nobody answered my prayers; the angels continued to weep, weep until they were bled dry, and finally the rain would stop. But it did not mean their suffering had ended._

_What must I do…to make my angel's suffering end?_

_If he broke, I would bleed for him. If he hurt, I would weep his tears for him. If he fell, I would die for him._

_But love is never quite that simple._

_-----------------------------------------------------------------_

**A/N: It's confusing, I know. But it's sort of supposed to be. Peter is not possessed, nor is there anything inside of him…it's all in his mind. The rest, you can interpret at your own free will.**

**What happened in the war will be revealed in due course.**

**I would like to state, that this whole fic is the result of a terrible truth…the truth that I am now officially in love, and let me tell you, it sucks! But I don't mind, which sucks even more.**

**Anything you have to say, I want to hear it!**

**Thanks for reading!**


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